


Loving the Fool

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Jester!Axel, Knight!Mick, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Possibly Pre-Slash, not from either of them though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 01:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6264580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick is a knight, Axel is the court jester who keeps offending people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for thoughmysoulmaysetindarkness on tumblr: "I will ll always be there to protect you."

Mick’s hand stills on his blade when he hears the familiar jingling of tiny bells echo from the corridor. The castle is cold at night, and he can picture the skinny jester slipping through the shadows, shivering and giving himself away, courtesy of the annoying garment he is obliged to wear. Mick doesn’t quite frown at the flames: he has long gotten used to the man, to his loud mouth and to his rude jests, to the stolen glances they should not share.

 

The heavy oak door creaks when it lets Axel in. Mick wonders how many people in the castle know the jester’s name – how many know how very young he is, barely twenty winters and still but a boy, in Mick’s eyes. He knows it’s foolish: most men that age have families instead of little bells, and yet others have only gravestones anymore. But Axel, wrapped in bright felt and with an eternal smile on his lips, does not even look real, much less mortal. Mick often feels that the boy’s ethereal, a prelude or a prince of forest spirits, a faun or an elf sent to bring chaos to the court.

 

He’s good at that, chaos. His words cut true and deep, and Mick knows that the jester must have offended someone today, to have come to Mick this late. They keep their acquaintance to the daylight, mostly – Mick does not know if Axel feels the same indescribable, terrifying longing or if he simply wishes to avoid unnecessary trouble because he does _not_ feel it at all, but Axel rarely seeks Mick out alone. When he’s hurt, or when he’s sad, he will break the unwritten rule though: and Mick feels like a bad man for taking joy in those moments.

 

Axel slides into the room, the bright yellows and oranges and blues of his costume drawing Mick’s attention. It’s only a couple steps to Mick’s bench – he’s only a minor knight and his room is far from large, but it has a fireplace and a couple of furs to curl into when the cold winter air bites into the very bones, and that’s all Mick really needs.

 

Axel’s shivering when he straddles the bench and lets his forehead drop onto Mick’s shoulder. The knight lets him just breathe for a while, soak up the warmth radiating from the flames, even though it can’t be comfortable for the boy, pressing his face into Mick’s heavy chainmail. Eventually, Axel realizes this too, because he sighs and sits up, his forehead creased to the pattern of Mick’s shoulder.

  
“Who did you insult today?” Mick asks, and Axel chuckles.

 

“Everyone, as usual. I think you meant to ask who took mortal offence.”

  
“Will I be fighting someone tomorrow?” Mick frowns, because the pattern is familiar by now. He should stay out of Axel’s feuds, he knows – and yet, he finds himself falling into the same trap over and over again. More than willingly, too.

 

Axel chuckles and pulls his ridiculous spiky hat off his head. His hair is sticking to his forehead and up around his head in every direction. Mick turns his eyes away, runs the stone down the edge of his sword in smooth, controlled strokes. Anything to divert his attention from how much he wants to reach out and smooth down that one curl that sticks straight up above Axel’s ear, damp and frizzy from the day spent confined under the bright yellow felt.

  
“No fights,” the jester giggles, but Mick can hear in his voice that the boy is tired. Many people have gathered in the castle in the past weeks, and it is Axel’s duty to know them all, so that his jests never miss their mark. Mick doesn’t think people appreciate how difficult Axel’s position is: and how easy he can lose the favor of the court, constantly balancing between laughter and offence, reward and punishment. He can feel the boy’s eyes on him like two red-hot brands, and he makes a show out of sharpening his sword, like nothing else matters in the world.

 

“I’ll be ready, just in case,” he grumbles, and Axel laughs:

  
“If I knew the position of a jester came with its own knight in shining armor, I might have tried sooner. I should not get used to it, though – whatever will I do once your troops have gone?”

 

The hint of anxiety in the jester’s artificially cheerful voice stills Mick’s hand. Is that it, then, the reason why Axel has come tonight? The party won’t leave for days yet, but the men are all getting restless before the campaign already. Mick has never feared any outcome warfare could bring, be it death or being stuck for months, even years, on an endless siege, living in muddy tents on stale bread. There is no telling how quickly the Duke’s enemy will surrender: Mick could be gone weeks, months, or years. He could never come back, if he is particularly unlucky – the prospect never worried him before, but now, when he turns his head to catch Axel’s too-bright eyes, he wonders when things have changed quite so much.

  
“I will always be there to protect you,” he says, quietly, gravely, an oath he is not allowed to make because his allegiance already belongs to another, along with his sword and his life. He only has one thing left to give, and his heart is not a gift Axel could ever take: so Mick does not offer out loud, but the look he gives the jester makes all the promises in his stead. Axel must know how futile it is, for he draws in a sharp breath, and his eyes dance away to the flames, bright and huge in fear, in all the things they are not allowed to name between them. He’s breathtaking, and Mick feels every year lining his own face all of a sudden: he will not be strong enough for war much longer. This might be his last campaign, the one where his head and his sword is laid to rest. He finds himself hoping that if that happens, his last thought will be of this beautiful boy and his kind heart, because nothing has ever felt so close to heaven, no matter how blasphemous the thought seems.

 

“You don’t know that,” Axel whispers, his mouth shaping his breath into words like he’s afraid of lending real voice to his fears. Mick looks at him – and he desperately longs to give the boy what is not even his anymore.  
  
He feels more than makes himself slide off the bench; the knee that got cracked three winters ago protests as it makes contact with the cool stone, but Mick barely notices. His hand moves on the sharp steel of his sword, holding it firmly as he offers the hilt to the court jester, the man no one takes seriously, the one who is more of a man in Mick’s eyes than most soldiers ever could hope to be.

  
“I promise,” he says, the simple words the only ones he can utter. He can’t promise Axel that he will live, for no one knows the future; he can’t promise his unwavering loyalty or his protection, because he had sworn long ago to stand by another’s side in battle. And Axel knows, for he does not reach for the hilt:  his slender fingers wrap around Mick’s over the blade and he holds Mick’s gaze, accepting the oath for what it is.

 

“Come back,” Axel whispers, voice raw and pained, and then his hand tightens over Mick’s before it slips away. The simple touch leaves Mick’s heart thundering in his chest, a battle march and a shiver of a leaf in the wind. It is the first time they have dared to touch like this, and Mick is determined not to make it the last – it is a foolish notion, dangerous, but Mick has never been known for being overly cautious.

 

The bells jingle and break the fragile moment when Axel rises to leave. Mick wishes he could be daring enough to stop him, but the boy was right: Mick will not be able to protect him from across the land, and he refuses to cause Axel trouble when he won’t be here to solve them for the jester. When, or if, he returns, maybe then-

 

He allows himself to hope, when he picks himself up off the stone floor and resumes sharpening his blade, the crackling of the fire his only companion. He allows himself to hope when he listens to the Duke announcing their departure in three days, when he watches the courtyard from horseback and seeks out a familiar pair of scared grey eyes.

 

He does not know how the campaign will end – but sometimes, exhausted from the day of riding and muddy to his ears, Mick can feel the ghost of a touch over his knuckles, and he knows that the hope is still alive in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr.](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


End file.
